


Coming Home

by JEAikman



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Injuries, boys being fussy mother hens, d'Artagnan really wants to go to bed, the others just want to stitch him up first
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-05 16:18:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1824643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JEAikman/pseuds/JEAikman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D'Artagnan has just returned from a long mission, and wants to go home and sleep in the arms of his loves for the night. Only problem is, one of those loves notices that he's injured. Cue worried friends who clamber to patch him back together - even though it's not all that dire. He is, eventually, allowed to have a nap.</p><p>And in the morning, someone will have news of great importance to share with d'Artagnan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mithlomi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithlomi/gifts).



> This is for Mithlomi, who wanted Athos/D'Artagnan/Constance OT3 fluff. (the really fluffy bit will be in chapter 2.)

D'Artagnan had been gone for a week, on an important errand given to him personally by the king himself. He did not know exactly what had gained him such great favour with Louis, but he wasn't about to question it. As it was, he returned home tired, soaked through to the skin, and he had the beginnings of a fever from a minor wound that he had let get infected. Aramis was going to give him an earful when next he saw him.

But right this moment, he could care less about all of that, because he had two very special people to return to. Constance and Athos awaited his return, and as soon as he had handed in the report to Treville, who had in turn gone to notify the king of the mission's success, he went to greet them.

If Constance had answered the door, perhaps he might have gotten away with saying he was tired and headed straight to bed, but as it was, Athos met him at the threshold, ready to embrace him, only to from when d'Artagnan took a step towards him.

"You're injured." He stated, worry and accusation clear in his eyes.

"I'm alright Athos. It's nothing too serious. I just want to go to sleep." D'Artagnan batted away the hands that went to search for his wound, disregarding his pleas entirely. "At least let me through the door first, you overbearing oaf." He protested, to which Athos inclined his head and guided him to the chair, helping him take off his boots and his trousers, which revealed a hastily applied bandage on his left calf, which had begun to bleed through. Athos scowled when he peeled away the bandages and uncovered the inflamed wound, caused by a sword, slashed across the younger man's lower leg.

"This needs stitches, you damned fool."

There was a knock on the door - Athos handed d'Artagnan some fresh cloth to keep pressed against his leg and went to answer it. Aramis and Porthos barged in.

"So how is- ah." Aramis frowned, kneeling down next to d'Artagnan. "Porthos, go and fetch me some hot water. Athos, I assume you know where Constance keeps her sewing supplies?"

They both left to complete their tasks whilst Aramis studied the wound. "This is nearly a day old. It's not as deep as it could have been - but you could very easily have bled to death with this untended. And now it's infected." Aramis cursed under his breath. "You don't do things by halves, do you, boy? Just how did you manage to keep in your saddle with your leg like this?"

"Had to. I had important letters to deliver. Concerning national security."

"How do you manage to get all the most dangerous missions, these days?"

"Because the king is fond of me" he deadpanned. Porthos returned with the water and some cloths just before Athos with the needle and thread.

"Well, I should hope so. I wouldn't like to think what he would do if he wasn't fond of you, if this is how he treats his favourites" Aramis teased lightly as he scrubbed the wound thoroughly. D'Artagnan was used to the pain by now, of being injured, and of being sewn back up. He merely sat in silence whilst Aramis threaded the needle in and out of his flesh.

_"Do you know," Aramis had said, the second time he had stitched his young friend shut (the first the boy had been unconscious from the bloodloss), "That you are perhaps the best patient I have ever had."_

 

Athos hovered as Aramis tied off the final stitch, and caught d'Artagnan as he tilted on his chair, eyes half-mast.

"Thank you for coming, both of you, but I think I should just get him to bed, before Constance comes back. He's going to need his strength for that argument." Both of them took their leave, and resolved to make a night of it at the tavern, now that they weren't going to be having their "family dinner". To be honest though, they had half-expected it. D'Artagnan's mission had been a dangerous one, and they were well aware that he might need time to rest. They all hated him being alone on his missions, but he was the king's most trusted Musketeer out of the whole garrison, and Treville seemed to be angling for him to become Captain after his retirement. They could cope with him coming home injured. They could fix that. What they all feared most was that one day he would get in trouble without them there to look out for him, and that he would get himself killed.

Athos sighed as he half-dragged, half-carried d'Artagnan to the bed they shared with Constance. He slipped the boy's coat off and undid his shirt, leaving him in only his smalls. He traced underneath his ribs, where he could still feel the raised scar from when he'd shot him in the middle of the street. Kissing him gently on the forehead, Athos took the blankets and tucked d'Artagnan in as if he were a child. He sighed.

"Constance is going to kill you, you know, and then she's going to kill me, because apparently, when I can't convince you not to go on a mission alone because you're a stubborn idiot, any scratch you happen to get when you're gone is _my_ fault, and I'm the one in the doghouse." He sighed and shook his head at the sleeping form by his side. D'Artagnan looked so peaceful in sleep, lips parted, a flush on his cheeks from the fever, but he seemed otherwise unbothered by it. Athos ruffled his hair and stood. "Well. I shall wait for Constance to return with ingredients for lunch - you rest, Constance has some news for you, when you wake."

 

_Thank you for coming home to us._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constance comes home, and is glad to find that d'Artagnan isn't dead.

When Constance returned home, the scene before her was hardly the one she had hoped for.  What she would have liked was for d'Artagnan to have returned whole and healthy without a scratch upon him. That had, admittedly, been a little naive of her to think. It was hardly the worst case scenario she had envisioned many of the nights - especially the ones where she had been alone, Athos off on a simple mission of his own. Treville was always careful to make sure that if they weren't together, at least one of them was relatively safe, bless the foresight of that man. The worst she would think up would be him lying, cold and bloodied in the middle of nowhere, bleeding out, with only his stalwart steed standing by him, even as he died - and he would always have their names on his lips - hers, and Athos'. On the very lonely nights, even the horse had abandoned him.

 

So there was a mixture of relief and anxiety which welled up within her when she found that Athos was watching over the sleeping form of their lover. Well, Constance's husband, now - it wouldn't be respectable if she didn't marry one of them, and that way it was easier to pretend to those that weren't their trusted friends that they were what they were to each other. She loved them both equally, however, though she had not known it to be love until d'Artagnan had arrived like a whirlwind into both of their lives.

Athos looked up with a tired smile at her arrival, absently dabbing at d'Artagnan's forehead with a cool cloth.

"How is he?" She asked, carefully watching his expression. Athos sighed, but it was frustrated and exasperated fondness, not graveness, thank God.

"He rode through the cold and rain to deliver important letters between Louis and the King of Spain. And now he's taken chill because of it. He needs to rest. But perhaps if you fixed him some broth?"

"Athos." Constance's voice was quiet, but he knew enough about that tone of her voice to fear it greatly. "Don't try to keep anything from me." She warned.

"There was a wound on his leg, a little infected, but nothing to worry about overmuch, so long as we keep it clean." Constance bit her lip - it wasn't Athos she was angry with, and shouting at d'Artagnan whilst he was sick would not help towards his recovery.

"He's an idiot." She huffed. Athos laughed, and invited her to sit on his lap, which she did, and set her head against the crook of his neck, sighing into his skin as he put his arms around her.

"I know." He agreed. "I think we knew that from the start."

"But he's our idiot, isn't he?" She felt Athos' soft chuckle echo through his chest as he held her close.

"I was really looking forward to telling him." She complained.

"I know", Athos replied patiently, rubbing circles with his thumb on her shoulder. She wouldn't mind falling asleep here, but then, the bed was there - and there was no reason that they couldn't just hop into it beside d'Artagnan.

"I suppose that'll just have to wait until he wakes up. But I do believe you were going to make broth for our idiot over there, dearest?" Constance swatted at him playfully.

"I hope you're not just expecting me to cook because I'm the woman here, Athos, love." She replied. Athos just rolled his eyes.

"Have you forgotten the last time you let me in the kitchen?" He reminded her, and he knew she did, by the mortified expression on her face. "I can cook simple fare in the field - but you forget that most of my life I had servants for such things as meals. And besides, I only ask because the resident chef is currently abed" he explained, gesturing to d'Artagnan, still blissfully unaware of their presence. Or perhaps not so blissful -  when Constance saw the troubled expression on his sleeping face, she darted over to the side of the bed and placed a gentle hand on the curve of his jaw, stroking his cheek.

"Hush, love, hush. It's all past now, all done, hush. I love you, Athos loves you - remember that, love, we're here." D'Artagnan's eyes shot open, but, out of practice, he stayed very still until he knew where he was. He looked up gratefully to Constance, who only smiled that bright, shining smile and kissed him on the cheek.

"What was it this time, love?" she asked. His face looked different than after any other nightmares she had coaxed him out of, and it had her curious.

"uh...not had that one for years" he said, more to himself than to his loves. "I...did I ever tell you about what happened to my mother?" Constance's eyebrows shot up, and she shook her head. Athos, however, nodded.

"You told me that she was shot by bandits when you were ten." His eyes narrowed. "You never told me you witnessed it."

"Dreamed about it for years after. But - but it stopped, years ago. They stopped. I don't understand what would start them again now." He rubbed at his chin, frustrated by his lack of understanding.

"Perhaps the ones who ambushed you seemed similar?" Athos suggested, and then hated himself for mentioning it when Constance looked up to glare at him. _That_ is a look he does not want to cross.

"Constance." D'Artagnan soothed, "I'm alright. I'll rest up for a week or so and then I'll be fit for duty, and I promise not to overdo it, alright?"

"You'd better." She sniffed, and leapt forward to wrap her arms tightly around him. "Because I don't care whose fault it is, my baby is not being without either of its fathers!" Underneath her embrace, d'Artagnan sat rigidly, his face suddenly pale as the sheets he was wrapped in, despite the fever.

"Constance," Athos rebuked, though his smile was almost intolerably fond, "That was hardly the best way to tell him."

"Well, he knows now." She muttered, not bothering to move her face from d'Artagnan's chest.

"You're..." He gulped, dumbfounded. Obviously, theoretically, he knew that it was a possibility, but many people tried to conceive for months, _years_ before anything happened. And. And now-

As he processed what she had told him, a massive grin spread across his face and he held her even more tightly, even as he looked meaningfully at Athos, who understood and moved to the bed as well, until all three of them were embracing and kissing and crying tears of joy.

"Welcome home, d'Artagnan." Athos murmured as he kissed the top of his head. "Constance keeps getting distracted from making that broth for you"

"but you can't- I mean, she's-"

"If you're about to insinuate that being pregnant makes me in any way delicate, I will get my sword and run you through myself, don't think I won't, Monsieur!" she huffed, and went down the stairs to the kitchen. D'Artagnan flopped back onto the pillows supporting his head and sighed. He wished he wasn't so tired - he'd just woken up. And they were going to be parents, all three of them.

"d'Artagnan" Athos began. "Stop thinking so much. You need to rest. I don't want this fever getting worse, or the chill getting into your lungs. For once in your life, boy, slow down and let us take care of you."

D'Artagnan blinked owlishly and nodded, giving Athos a small smile. As he drifted into dreams once more, there was one thought which filled his mind with warmth:

_It's good to be home_


End file.
